


Splinters & Mosaics

by Shachaai



Series: For A Muse Of Fire [5]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: F/M, interwar fashion and snarking, with a side of astronomy and bitching about time and fairytales and phallic-shaped objects
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2020-06-24 10:46:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19722103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shachaai/pseuds/Shachaai
Summary: Geneva, Switzerland. November 1920. In the aftermath of a war that changed the world, it feels like, to two old empires, that even the stars have changed. Nothing is immutable forever.





	Splinters & Mosaics

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for aph-fanficchallenges’ (on tumblr) Shipping & Platonic Week 2019, Day 2: _Constellations_. But it’s so, so late (it ran away with me, I had to deal with a computer virus in the middle, and France and England are prone to long and wandering conversational tangents because they’re pains in the ass), I don’t think it can even be classed as for that week any more. Still, too much research went into it to _not_ finish it.  
> Also, I did not expect this to have as much _science_ in it as it ended up having, so somehow it’s now a strange piece of interwar romantic melancholy wherein early 20s fashion smashes face-first into astronomy. With snark and kisses. Enjoy? ;;;

_November, 1920  
Hôtel National, City of Geneva, in the Swiss Confederation/Switzerland _

“Tell me, is that still a filthy habit for any woman of good breeding, or are you riding the crest of a new trend?”

England glances up from the cigarette in her hand at France’s question, her pensive expression flickering into a wry smile as she sees the other Nation coming along the path towards her.

“You’re a piece-of-shit liar, France.” She straightens in her seat on the garden bench to greet him, her booted ankles still crossed neatly at the heel. An example to all. “I’ve never seen a _trend_ lately that your beaky nose hadn’t thoroughly poked itself into first, the way you pore over those terrible magazines.”

“I protest, Angleterre.” France tries not to lose his hat as he bends to kiss England’s uplifted cheeks, pink as they are from the dry, November night cold. Up close, she smells sweet - something of a relief after a day cramped in a building full of politicians and their staff as they prepare for the first formal assembly of the League of Nations in a few days time -, her tobacco mild, and her skin and clothes scented by the peach chypre of her perfume, the English lavender scent used in her face powder and soap. “I do not _lie;_ I merely… _embellish._ ”

“That would suggest that your words, at least, are decorative - which cannot be true. You have always been neither use nor ornament.”

Despite her words, England passes France the last of her cigarette when he sits down beside her, their gloved fingers crossing for a moment, grey leather against black. Unusually generous of her, even if it is merely a pity-gift.

“Was there something you wished to speak to me about?”

There are only a few drags left in the cigarette, but France fits his mouth to the kiss-pink marks of England’s lipstick on the filter anyway. He draws the smoke languidly into his lungs and, when he breathes it out again in a slow exhale, lets all the day’s tension leave his limbs with it. Reaches up to loosen his tie.

He is so _terribly_ tired of squabbling with the Belgians, and the Chinese, and the Swiss today. And others. Preparing for an international diplomatic meeting that represents over half the world’s population is a task that strains the very bounds of diplomacy.

“I was avoiding my delegation as I left for the evening,” he explains - because, mon _Dieu,_ they would flog his carcass if they thought they could wring one more ounce of political benefit and international goodwill out of it -, “when I saw the smoke from your cigarette. As they say, there is no smoke without fire, and,” France waves the cigarette, its ember tip glowing its last orange-red in the evening’s dark, “‘ere is the smoke.” Waves the same hand holding it at England. “‘Ere the fire.”

“Only a masochist goes looking to get burned,” England scolds him, though she still looks amused. The light that makes it out into the garden they’re sitting in catches in her eyes like a cat’s, the glint of teeth behind her parted lips, dangling earrings swaying with her movement under her hat. “If you’re not going to finish that -”

France gives her back the cigarette to finish, one last deep draw of breath, and smiles lazily. “Perhaps I came looking only to be warmed.”

Though the seat underneath him is cold, colder than the evening air, and the building before them both - _L’Hôtel National,_ the new home of the League of Nations where they have both spent all day in the most _tedious_ of political meetings - is still lit up like the most expensive of dollhouses made in the late century past. Golden windows spilling out light into the darkness like the eyes of glowering beasts.

“This hearth is on private property,” England informs France primly, disturbing him from his wandering thoughts, and blows smoke in his face when he laughs.

A tired laugh, yes, but a true one.

“Ma chère, never change.”

“You don’t think I’ve changed already?” England asks, perhaps not as idle-sounding as she might have been aiming for, and ashes the cigarette on the metal arm of the bench beside her. 

France considers the question. Looks at England and the movement of her hands, taking in her slim, vaguely military-style coat - calf-length, belted, made of navy wool velour trimmed in silvery mink fur - that actually looks warmer than his own, and then the slim frame it is draped upon.

Yes, she has lost weight from the war, but England is as slender now as she ever was - and she finally can be, now, truly called _slender,_ grown into an adult’s height, rather than being just another skinny waif with too many angles growing every which way - and her green gaze meets France’s as boldly as it first did in those long ago days when they were children, and they adored each other, and they frustrated one another, and England put slimy things in France’s bed and insisted that a dragon had eaten her new shoes. She suits the new feminine trend towards young and _boyish,_ though her style tends more towards _ingénue_ than any of the darker looks favoured by America’s glamorous young actresses. _Vamp_ and _eastern promise_ do not work terribly well when you look like a quick, slight, fae thing that might make its home in the bloom of the thorniest English rose - and so England’s lipstick is pale pink and girlish, her lashes darkened only to be startling rather than smoky. Powder hides the bags under her eyes caused by stress from the upcoming assembly, from poring over the fine details of her mandates with France which divide up the Middle East between themselves due to the Treaty of Sèvres. Stress caused by India’s ongoing belligerence towards the British Empire and the uprising at England’s home with her own sister, Ireland, which has spilled out into war.

Another war.

France is so tired of war - can still feel the phantom bumps and pains of shells and mortar embedded beneath his skin, buried as they are still in his land, a danger to farmers trying to return to their ploughs. His body is still lined and marked with trenches and craters, and his headache feels permanent - the pain of trying to heal from a war whilst planning in case of _another_ war, because Germany is still trying to slip loose of the much-needed restraints in the Treaty of Versailles. Even if England and America cannot see it.

When did England become a grown-up? When did _France?_ It must have happened during one of their many petty - and not so petty - squabbles, but France cannot recall the fight, or the year, or the moment when childhood ended and their lives became _this_ instead. There is no guidebook for how a Nation ages, no real, consistent examples offered by their chaotic forebears, and the way the younger Nations grow _now_ breaks every rule France had once thought might apply.

The world is moving faster, and France -

France -

“France?” England prompts at his silence, eyebrows raised.

France focuses on her again for the moment, thoughtful, and then slides a little closer to England on the bench, thighs pressed close, and reaches up to remove the soft grey velvet of her Tam O’Shanter hat.

England allows France to take it from her - which really does say something for the relationship they had built up during the war, because on similar occasions in the past she would have already punched him -, though her eyebrows lift ever higher when France cups her face in his hands. She tips her cheek into his palms when his thumb strokes under her eye, her lashes fluttering low in instinctive response - but not all the way shut, her gaze remaining carefully fixed on France’s face.

She does not entirely trust him, does not approve of the way his people insist that Germany is still not to be trusted again, nor that he will not disarm with German strength still too near his borders. But then -

England, wary thing, sweet, wild, perfidiously treacherous thing, whatever height or age she was or is, had and has _always_ been willing to kick France in the shins and tell him his ideas are stupid.

And always has kept one eye on France, just in case he tried to do the same thing to her first.

Life has been so unpredictable this century so far that that reassurance makes France smile. His thumb slips from England’s cheek to tuck back an errant strand of her hair behind her ear, feeling the cool weight of her dangling silver earring brush against his knuckles in their gloves.

England wears her hair parted heavily to one side now, so a smooth, deep wave skims over her right eyebrow and curls to the side of it, around her cheek. A shingle bob, in essence, it is tapered very short to a V at the back, and would expose the long pale line of England’s nape were her mink collar not so high.

It makes France’s own neck feel cold. His beautiful mane of hair had been _tragically_ cropped for wartime at the behest of his boss, and his sumptuous waves are taking their time coming back in with their correct health and gloss. France would rather keep his shorter hair than have dull, longer hair and _split ends._

Similarly, England had cut off all her lovely long hair at the beginning of the war to pass as a man, though _her_ hair appears to have regained its shine already, stubbornly defying rebellions in her empire just to spite everyone, it seems. With bobs now in fashion for young women, she had only needed to grow her hair out a little, trim it and style it, to match the new trend, thus sparing herself _too much_ of an awkward transition period between one hairstyle and the next. The short cut is still quite scandalous to those clinging to Victorian sensibilities, but at least no-one can accuse England of being _unfeminine_ with this bob - as they had done in the past when she had gone from passing as a man to dressing as a woman once more and her hair had needed growing out to match her feminine gowns -, though there are definitely conservative souls out there that will gasp, sneer, and call her _unladylike._

“Yes,” France says at last, curves his fingers under England’s jaw and feels the slow muted thump of her pulse through leather and tickling fur, “I think you do better with this than the Eton crop, ma chère. You looked much like a boy with that, which I believe is quite troublesome for a woman who does not wish certain mortal gentlemen to know that she regularly dons both masculine clothing and name during wartime to pass herself off as a man.”

“Really?” England asks him, her tone turning shrewd. Under her lashes, her gaze is a stabbing thing. “You really want to discuss my haircut?”

“Ma _belle,_ ” France demurs, letting his own eyes slide sideways to England’s cheekbone, her temple.,“it used to be a reliable thing. In general peacetime, I had my beard, and your hair was always long. You could make a golden rope of it and wrap three times around your neck.” Now one of England’s stray curls will barely wrap around France’s _finger_ as many times as that, and France’s jaw is shaven bare. It is very lucky he has such a strong, magnificent jawline. “It was a constant temptation to choke you with it.”

England squints at him. “...Are you _aware_ of how creepy those last few observations were?”

Grinning, France tugs at her curl. “Have you noticed that you are flattered regardless?”

“ _Creepy,_ France.”

“And _flattering,_ Angleterre.” Another playful tug, which makes England click her tongue and bump her temple against his knuckles. “Apparently.”

“In my case, you can prove nothing. _You,_ however -”

France kisses England because she is a stubborn thing, catching her lips still parted in their protest. Despite all their talking and smoking her mouth is chill from the November night air - but the inside is hot, a quick wet flicker of heat that France dips into before taking the taste of tea and tobacco back to his own mouth, a swift and victorious raid.

England nips at his lower lip in retaliation, her hand finding the edge of his coat to touch against his chest, the buttons of his jacket, waistcoat and shirt pressing back against his ribcage and her palm. France’s abdominal muscles contract under her touch, a perfect little clench that does much to improve his evening, and the waxiness of England’s lipstick leaves a gloss on France’s lips. It slickens his way as he kisses England again, his hand still woven through her hair, around her jaw, to tip her mouth up against his.

She is pleasingly pink, afterwards. “...Was that in mourning for my hair?”

“Are you accustomed to being kissed at funerals?”

“Personally? No.” England’s fingers draw closer together on France’s chest, a gentle claw. Hopefully, she will leave him his buttons. “But _you_ are known for disappearing with _companions_ at wakes.”

France shrugs, unconcerned. “Many find intimacy in the face of death to be cathartic.”

“And you are always happy to serve the needs of the many.”

“ _Angleterre,_ ” France drawls, amused at England’s little sniff, “if you leave your poison fangs at the door, you are _more_ than welcome to join me.”

England gives him a small shove, causing his hands to fall, and rather huffily takes her hat back from his lap. “You are very carefully not answering my question, you know. On if you think I have changed.”

And _England_ is very carefully not answering France’s proposition, but that is nothing new. The world truly _will_ be ending if England does not treat France’s suggestions with the witheringly contemptuous silence she seems to feel they deserve.

“...Do you _wish_ to have changed?” France asks her, curious. England’s expression shifts slightly - the slight tremble of a smile that moves the shadows at the corners of her mouth. _“Ah._ Je vois.”

A few more lights flick off in the hotel in front of them, windows going dark as the international staff inside slowly leave for the night.

“You have changed, _ma petite;_ ” France says, searching for succinctness in the darkness, in the memories of millennia, “of course you have changed. So have I. The world has changed around us, and changed us. But at the same time - we have not changed. We are rocks in the rivers of time. We are too weighty for the water to move us all at once, but still. The current beats away at us, smoothing down our jagged edges and slowly, gradually, wearing away the stone.”

England’s smile eases, soft and small. She understands him, of course she does - though she will frequently deny it, turning her face away from France and Europe to look at anyone else in the world instead. “The little bird, in the fairytale, that comes once a hundred years to wipe its beak upon the great diamond mountain.”

France nods, sighs, and leans back into the bench again, arms spread along its length. “When the whole mountain is worn away by it, the first second of eternity will be over.”

“God,” says England, and France does her the service of pretending not to notice that she has leant back as well, resting on his arm behind her, “an eternity of this.”

“Fashions change, our people come and go, but this…” France tips his head her way, down - at her torso, the infuriating lioness' heart beating in her chest, “the spirit is immutable. The ship of Theseus.”

England makes a face at him. “...You were doing so well, and then you simply _had_ to mention philosophy.”

“And fairytales are not philosophical? There are fundamental truths to be found in talking about wolves and woods and witches.”

“Yes,” says England, and pulls on her hat. “Don’t piss them off.”

One witch in particular, at least, though too much thinking about the _why_ s and _how_ s of it still hurts France’s head. Magic had not stopped the Great War, but there are moments France remembers of the trenches - small, impossible things seen amongst rain and mud, addled by pain and drowsiness -, England’s sharp tongue and quick, pale hands spotted with crimson, bright green eyes and gold-green light. Haunted soldiers somehow managing to sleep free of nightmares when hell was around them and there was not enough drugs spare to sedate them; wounds on France’s limbs that had knitted up faster than he’d expected. The world feeling a little softer after England had touched his arm once, a little quieter. A little less cold, when she’d fallen asleep against his side once, both of them propped up against a wall.

“I suppose time touches everything,” says England, and the look in her eyes has turned sad. Perhaps her mind had wandered down similar paths to France’s, sifting through the last decade of grief. “Even spirits.”

France lets his arm around her lift from the back of their seat, hand curved enough to touch her shoulder. There is still room for him to do so, no tariff or fee for the motion, though the British are rapidly curling themselves back into a state of Imperial protectionism, and drawing dominions and colonies fretfully around them.

“There’s proof, you know. Look up. Look at the supposedly immutable stars.” England’s head tips back, leaning back over France’s arm, as she looks upwards, to the sky. “Their lights change - they sometimes brighten; they dim and fade -, and their positions shift over time in the night sky.”

“The seasons -”

“France, please have enough faith in the amount of time I spent at sea over the centuries and all my nautical charts to know that I am not talking about the seasonal movement of the constellations.”

France concedes the point with silence - if only so that he does not have to listen to England wax lyrical about her thrice-damned _navy_ -, and joins his companion in looking upwards.

“Yes,” says England, “the stars seem to change their places in our skies between summer and winter, but each decade those places each summer, each winter, seem to me a little different than the places they were the decade before. And the constellations _themselves_ are changing shape.”

“Comets -” England glances away from the stars and gives France a _look,_ “you are not talking about comets either, _bien sûr._ ”

Back to the sky again. There are clouds out tonight - if there were not, it would be colder - but vast swathes of the sky are clear, glittering with stars. Only the brighter ones show with the lights of the League of Nations building still seeping into France’s vision, with the lights of Geneva outshining them, but the heavens still seem endlessly studded with stars, like dark stone flooring after one has just trodden over it with bare feet, straight from the beach. 

“We’re on the 46th parallel north here in Geneva, so the most obvious circumpolar constellations above us are the two bears, Draco, Cepheus, and Cassiopeia.” England lifts her hand towards the north, north-east, to trace the lines of the latter constellation. Cassiopeia is still ascending at this time of the evening, pursued by Perseus. “Queen of the Northern Sky.”

France shifts closer to England again, all the better to follow the angle of her finger. Even through their layers, it is warmer pressed up against the other Nation’s side. “One of her many monikers.”

“She is shaped like a W now, but it used to be more. Lopsided? The first, leftmost valley was much shallower, with its lowermost point closer to the incline in the centre.” France squints at the stars in question, trying to imagine it, trying to follow the tiny movements of England’s fingertip as she tries to explain. “If you’ve watched Cassiopeia long enough, her stars seem to move independently of one another, at different speeds. People with far finer telescopes than I have told me they’re all at different distances to us, which is why some of them have appeared to move more than others.”

France cannot say he ever paid Cassiopeia enough attention to tell. Portugal, Spain, and England had been his closest neighbours obsessed with their ships and nautical prowess, with their endless charts and navigation by the skies - but France has always preferred his armies on land. “I shall have to take your word for it.”

Sighing, England gives him that exasperated look of hers - one of _very_ many - that despairs at France’s education and the difference in their interests. (France politely, does not mention that if he _had_ paid more attention to his ships than he had in the past, perhaps history would be very different, and England would be annoyed with him about _that_ now instead.

There is no winning here.)

“Perhaps a more obvious example then,” the jab of England’s finger moves to the brightest star in the sky, pure north, “Polaris, or Alpha Ursae Minoris, if you prefer. My people called it _scip-steorra_ \- the ship-star - when I was young, a millennia ago. We depended on it for navigation because it was so bright, and seemed eternally fixed in place. It was still almost ten degrees off the celestial north then, but now it sits almost perfectly atop it.”

France frowns. Vaguely - _so_ vaguely -, he can recall Denmark once rambling to him about the North Star and movement, court astronomers warbling their portents about the heavens to France’s kings, but to have it framed so bluntly…

“It moved?” he asks.

“Or we moved,” says England. Shrugs, moving France’s ribs with it. “Perhaps both.”

“The universe does tend to prefer the complicated option, in my experience.”

England’s finger shifts around the pole, following the curve of the heavens to find the snaking stars that mark out the dragon. Their heads bump together, as France follows it. “And it was not always the northern pole star. Egypt’s ancient people used a star in Draco to angle their oldest pyramids: Alpha Draconis, or Thuban. But, by the time of the Romans, we have writing describing the celestial pole as being devoid of stars.”

“So even the stars change,” says France, and sighs.

“And so the shapes of the constellations change,” says England, and lets her hand drop. It lands on France’s thigh rather than her own, but they both leave it there. “I could spend forever making new charts of the heavens, and each one would be different.” Her chin drops as well, contemplative. “If I live that long.”

“As long as forever?” France asks her. Does not repeat, but lets his voice echo with, her earlier lament: _an eternity of this._

England smiles crookedly, not entirely mirthless. “Perhaps I’ll only do it as long as the little bird has a diamond mountain to wipe its beak upon. When the mountain is gone, something else might take my interest.”

France turns his head just so, and kisses the round of her cheek. And then her mouth again, pink to pink, and promises there: “I will outlive you, Angleterre, even if it is only by a day.”

England does not look either convinced or impressed. “Then I’ll go and conquer hell before you.”

“Just show them your cooking,” France agrees, and flattens England’s next indignant little sound with another solid kiss. “Come, I will take you to dinner.”

England grumbles inarticulately against his mouth for a moment, doing her best to ignore France nuzzling against her cheek. The tip of his nose is colder than her skin, and it is nice to warm it up so. “Will you now?”

“If you wish to go back to the hotel your delegation has commandeered and talk of nothing but the assembly instead…” A soft _ugh_ clearly spells out England’s thoughts on the matter, so France takes the opportunity to pull back and stand up from the bench - sighing inwardly, _tragically,_ when his knees crack deplorably at the motion - and offer his stubborn little companion his hand. The only way out from postwar recession is through, and the French, at least, do not have an Irish independence movement to worry their treasury about. “La Vieille Ville has many good places to eat, and I am sure at least one of them should be perfect for us to hide away in until they stop looking for us.”

England has the manners to take his hand as she rises, a quick squeeze of her fingers, so France pushes his luck and loops her arm around his own.

For that, he gets another _look._

France looks back, beginning to lead her down the garden path, into the darkness and towards freedom for the rest of their evening. “Is it so very difficult for you to _pretend_ to tolerate my presence?”

“Someone might assume there’s another big war on,” says England, very archly, and France laughs.

It’s short, and not a very amused laugh, too full of empty hollow spaces in the middle. Still, it makes France’s ribs ache, and England presses closer to his side rather than pulling away.

And then, unusually tactfully, empathetically, for her in cases where France is concerned, changes the subject: “You know, America has some scientists at the moment that are arguing over the size of the universe.”

“They have been arguing over the size of la Voie lactée since ancient times, ma petite.” France would know - he had once debated the subject with monks in drafty castles, and again with the intellectual and opinionated in endless scandalous salons. “Young Amerique just likes to exhaust old debates.”

England flaps her free hand at him - gesturing at what, France certainly does not know. “No, no - the size of the _universe,_ France, not just the Milky Way. A few of them are proposing that there are island universes _outside_ of the Milky Way.”

France is too busy trying to remember the way to the hotel garden’s exit - that does not take them back inside a building - to try and truly grasp the sheer _size_ of what England is proposing. “...Amerique has always liked to dream big.”

Taking very much after his mentor in her youth, the boy’s head is full of dreams, ideals and stars.

Even more dangerously, the boy’s _pockets_ are filled with the cold hard cash to try and do something about them.

 _If_ he wants to. His absence in the days leading up to their first assembly for the League of Nations has already been pointedly noted.

“He does have the world’s biggest telescope,” says England, and France cannot tell if the note in her voice is one of pride, jealousy or envy. Perhaps all three at once. “At Mount Wilson. Built it during the war.”

France has no such problem identifying his own emotions. “How _nice,_ to be able to prove oneself so extravagantly untouched by warfare.”

“It’s called the Hooker telescope,” England says, and then hesitates long enough that France glances down at her, mildly concerned at the silence.

But England, her earrings catching the hotel lights like the stars that have been so much of their conversation, teeth digging slightly into her lower lip, is _smiling._

“I keep wanting to ask if it means he’s prostituting himself for science.”

France coughs out a laugh before he can help himself. “You believe ‘e would be the flagrant sort? There _are_ subtler ways of displaying one’s goods than pointing a large phallus-shaped object into the sky.”

“And _you_ would know, of course,” says England, and, even in the dark, France can see her roll her eyes.

“I am a creature of many skills and talents,” France assures her, tone haughty but his lips still haunted by a lazy smile. “In all this vast - and apparently becoming vaster - universe, you ‘ave never met one more skilled and talented.”

“I don’t think there’s any universe big enough to deal with any ego larger than yours,” says England, and shifts so she can lay her head on France’s shoulder as they walk, his arm pressed to her breasts above her coat.

It is rather impossible for France to _not_ be in a good mood at that, even if the move reminds him vaguely of a cat that has caught a mouse between its front paws and is kicking with its back two to break the rodent’s neck. “And if science should prove you wrong?”

“Keep your ever-inflating ego in check,” England warns him mildly, and the familiar fond threat of it warms France through, November air forgotten, “and we’ll never have to find out.”

**Author's Note:**

> The first assembly of the League of Nations was held in Geneva, Switzerland, on November 15th, 1920. More information about the assembly’s proceedings [here](https://www.upi.com/Archives/1920/11/15/First-meeting-of-assembly-of-League-of-Nations-is-open/3271510630366/).
> 
> When Switzerland joined the then newly-created League in 1920, the 5-storey, 225-room sandstone building of the Hôtel National on the western/right-bank of Lake Geneva became the world body's headquarters. In 1924, the building was renamed Palais Wilson after the death of US President Woodrow Wilson and Nobel Peace Prize laureate, who had played an important role in the establishment of the League of Nations during the 1919 Paris Peace Conference after World War I. In 1937, the League moved to the purpose-built Palais des Nations on a far larger piece of land.  
> The Palais Wilson has an interesting history, so if you want to know more, there’s more information [here](http://www.geneve-int.ch/palais-wilson-memory-and-hostage-geneva).
> 
> Primarily due to post-war acquisitions from the former Ottoman Empire, the British and French empires actually continued to _grow_ after WW1, a reflection of the power of their alliance, and reached their peaks in 1920 (France) and 1921 (Britain).
> 
> Yardley, selling from Bond Street in London, made a range of cosmetics using English Lavender, among them [face powder (available in a powder box or compact), talcum powder, perfume, face cream and soaps](https://image.glamourdaze.com/2013/05/1920s-yardley-makeup-ad.jpg).
> 
> [Reference for England’s coat](https://www.pinterest.co.uk/pin/344384702740763533/visual-search/?x=16&y=16&w=530&h=671) (figure on the left, in navy instead of brown), and more information about/examples of Tam O’Shanter hats (and other hats of the 1920s) [here](https://vintagedancer.com/1920s/1920s-hats-styles/). And [hairstyles](https://image.glamourdaze.com/2014/04/1920s-Hairstyles-The-Bobbed-Hairstyle-chart-708x1024.jpg).
> 
> The fairytale quoted by France and England is Grimms’ [_The Shepherd Boy_](http://www.familymanagement.com/literacy/grimms/grimms117.html).
> 
> England’s astronomical information is as accurate as I can make it. Apologies if you spot any glaring mistakes. There were other pole stars between Thuban and Polaris, but their detail was unnecessary for the fic.  
> [Star-maps showing the changing shapes of a few constellations through the ages, and predicting their shapes in the millennia to come.](http://www.halcyonmaps.com/constellations-throughout-the-ages/7onpey6n6b12opyjcxre6q1qlo3v7y)  
> Until the 1920s, the prevailing view was that all the stars (and other objects) in the universe existed inside the Milky Way - that is to say, the Milky Way _was_ the universe. In April 1920, [the Great Debate](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Great_Debate_\(astronomy\)) (also called the Shapley-Curtis Debate for the scientists involved) took place, pitting Harlow Shapley’s view that the Milky Way was the entirety of the universe, against Heber Curtis’ argument that it was not. The debate hinged upon the nature of ‘spiral nebulae’, such as (what was then called) the Andromeda nebula. Shapley took the prevailing view that these nebulae were small objects existing inside the Milky Way, as, if they were their own galaxies external to our own (or ‘island universes’, as they were called at the time) as Curtis was proposing, due to relative sizes, they would exist at a distance from our solar system that most contemporary astronomers would not accept.  
> Other scientists contributed to the debate and there was a lot more detail to it, so I would urge you to look into it more yourselves if you’re interested. Either way, [Edwin Hubble’s work](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Edwin_Hubble) (at Mount Wilson with the Hooker telescope, the world’s largest 1917-49) soon proved that Curtis had been correct, identifying Cepheid variables (stars used as a means to calculate the distance to various celestial objects) in several spiral nebulae. His observations, in 1922-3, proved conclusively that these nebulae existed at a distance vastly too far away from the Sun to be part of the Milky Way - thus proving the universe was much larger than had previously been held to be true, and the existence of galaxies outside of our own.
> 
> The title from this fic comes from an excerpt from Virginia Woolf’s diary, 15 September 1924: ‘All this confirms me in thinking that we’re splinters & mosaics; not, as they used to hold, immaculate, monolithic, consistent wholes.’


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